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Entry tags:
Disbelief
Sometimes I have to remind myself that my father is dead. It's not denial, more like disbelief. It's just so surreal and weird.
I suppose a sudden and unexpected (and totally preventable) fatal illness is a lot like an accidental death. There's just no preparation, no warning signs, no tidying up affairs. Everything is just a big mess, much like his apartment and business. Empty safe deposit box. Missing will. Lack of organized documentation. Garages full of stuff. Attic full of stuff. Basement full of stuff. Workplace full of stuff. Apartment full of stuff.
I just keep occasionally thinking about how I should call him, how I need to get a Father's Day card, how I should try to get some Sox tickets. And then I need to remind myself that I don't need to do those things anymore. What I /do/ need to do is continue writing these blasted thank you cards for funeral gifts, continue planning trips to RI for cleaning and such, continue being gracious when people offer sympathy.
My director picked flowers from her own garden and arranged them in a vase on my desk yesterday. She was on vacation the last two weeks, and was just bowled over when she heard. She's quite sweet and I enjoy her very much. She also thinks I am one of the most hysterical people ever. (That's good for my ego.) And says I can never, ever leave my job. She's paranoid that we're moving to Rhode Island.
It feels so weird to be digging through my dad's drawers and cabinets, because privacy was always terribly important to him. I don't know how many times I got pissed in college because I had late bills and notices that I didn't know about because he refused (out of privacy) to open my mail. It feels so weird to bag up all his clothes, drawers after drawers of t-shirts that he bought to commemorate occasions and never wore. I took back the Dead Milkmen t-shirt that I got autographed for him in 1992. And an old school Mickey Mouse t-shirt. And his Montreal Canadiens jersey. And a Red Sox World Series t-shirt he hadn't even had for a year.
Heck, when he said he could die happy at any time now that the Sox won the Series last year, I guess he wasn't frigging kidding.
I suppose a sudden and unexpected (and totally preventable) fatal illness is a lot like an accidental death. There's just no preparation, no warning signs, no tidying up affairs. Everything is just a big mess, much like his apartment and business. Empty safe deposit box. Missing will. Lack of organized documentation. Garages full of stuff. Attic full of stuff. Basement full of stuff. Workplace full of stuff. Apartment full of stuff.
I just keep occasionally thinking about how I should call him, how I need to get a Father's Day card, how I should try to get some Sox tickets. And then I need to remind myself that I don't need to do those things anymore. What I /do/ need to do is continue writing these blasted thank you cards for funeral gifts, continue planning trips to RI for cleaning and such, continue being gracious when people offer sympathy.
My director picked flowers from her own garden and arranged them in a vase on my desk yesterday. She was on vacation the last two weeks, and was just bowled over when she heard. She's quite sweet and I enjoy her very much. She also thinks I am one of the most hysterical people ever. (That's good for my ego.) And says I can never, ever leave my job. She's paranoid that we're moving to Rhode Island.
It feels so weird to be digging through my dad's drawers and cabinets, because privacy was always terribly important to him. I don't know how many times I got pissed in college because I had late bills and notices that I didn't know about because he refused (out of privacy) to open my mail. It feels so weird to bag up all his clothes, drawers after drawers of t-shirts that he bought to commemorate occasions and never wore. I took back the Dead Milkmen t-shirt that I got autographed for him in 1992. And an old school Mickey Mouse t-shirt. And his Montreal Canadiens jersey. And a Red Sox World Series t-shirt he hadn't even had for a year.
Heck, when he said he could die happy at any time now that the Sox won the Series last year, I guess he wasn't frigging kidding.